A Magical World
by pippa-writes
Summary: A series of phiclets based on the Charles Dance (Yeston/Kopit) Phantom universe. Some more angsty than others! Maybe more to follow these three at some point?
1. 1 The Magic Flute

_A series of Cherik (Charles Dance Phantom) phics I came up with as a means of getting through some particularly draining weeks of school. I don't think I'm adding to this little trilogy, not as of yet, but maybe I'll suffer a bit more and vent through the medium of Cherik phanfiction, who knows XD Enjoy this little angst fest ) the third one is fluffier by request!)_

* * *

 **The Magic Flute**

"It's not the same kind of love I have for you," she'd promised, her voice more confident than she truly felt. "It's not the same at all!"

She'd kissed him, though perhaps to reassure herself more than him.

It hadn't worked.

Christine stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep, and not for the first time. Phillippe snored quietly beside her, as he did every night, completely deaf to the music that seemed to fill the room whenever she closed her eyes. The music always seemed to wait for him to fall asleep, before it began its lonely serenade.

It didn't matter how often she reminded herself the soft sounds of a flute were just in her head, the products of a grieving mind, or how often she listened to Phillippe's or Gerard's gentle reassurances that her Maestro was sleeping quietly five stories below the Opera House, she simply couldn't hear anything else but that terrible music, music so soft and sweet it plunged daggers into her heart over and over until she wept silent tears into her pillow.

Gerard was usually more patient with her when she told him of the dreadful flute of the night. He sat with her as she described the careful notes and calm, gentlemanly rhythm that only her Maestro could create. Sometimes, his tears would join hers and they would weep together for the lost genius, teacher, friend, son. Phillippe tried, he truly did, but he would often times grow weary of her mourning and ask her desperately, usually on his knees before her, to try and cheer up, to perhaps distract herself from the memories of the man who looked at her with all the admiration she'd ever seen a human being possess.

It was such suggestions of distractions that saw Phillippe leading her to a spare room one day, pressing her on from behind with his hands over her eyes. That was how she came to sit daily before an easel with a brush, dipped in a mix of coppery auburn, poised over the canvas.

She always painted the deep blue eyes first, always added the white flicks of light through them, and therefore added life. His eyes kept her company as she painted, for he was all she painted now; the vase of marigolds set on the table before her had long since wilted away into thin stalks over the past three months.

A tear rolled down her cheek.

She closed her eyes and pushed herself up from the mattress, as slowly and quietly as she could, as not to wake Phillippe. Amid the darkness, she found her dressing gown and flat shoes and tiptoed to the door.

Phillippe stirred as she crept out and shut it behind her, but she was already gone, and he slipped back into the thick, cloudy confines of sleep.

Christine knew her way to her little painting room even through the pitch of night by now, as though she'd worn the carpet down and followed the same trail every night. It wasn't too far from the bedroom, just two corridors away and the third room down. She pushed the door open and within minutes the little, converted salon was awash with candlelight.

She set herself before the easel and eased the cover from the canvas. Her breath caught; she'd never get used to meeting those impossibly intelligent, shimmering eyes. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. It was no use denying that she missed him, that his death had shattered something so deep within her that it had taken a month or two for her grief to show upon her face. No use denying she often thought of nothing but his voice or music or dreamt of him when she, at last, managed to sleep.

Or that she loved him.

Even Phillippe knew that.

A deep breath to calm her racing heart. Christine found her brush and paints in the little artist's box Gerard had presented her with.

"A friend's," he'd explained when she unwrapped it that sad, terrible Christmas. But the look in his eyes when they caught hers gave it all away.

She treasured that artist's box now. It never, ever left her salon, and woe to any servant who dared enter the dusty confines without her permission.

She hummed as she dabbed some copper into his fluffy hair, hoping the melody would raise her spirits somewhat.

She didn't have the heart to paint his mask. It was always the last addition to the paintings, a begrudging feature she felt she simply _had_ to add out of respect; her Maestro would utterly detest any portrait where he was unmasked. She could never give him an unmarred face, for that simply wasn't him. And yet, she could not bear to detail his true visage, and therefore set in stone his accursed ugliness. And so, the mask must be added, she'd decided unhappily.

Bit by bit, she brought her lost Maestro back to life on the canvas, first by finishing his eyes and hair, then adding the detestable outline of his mask, followed by his ever-pristine clothes, for she would never see him in any less than expensive tailcoats and finely sewn trousers, with newly-polished boots. It was just his noble head and shoulders on the canvas tonight, with perhaps the top of his pocket square peeping from his coat.

 _"You have nothing to be concerned about,"_ she could imagine him saying, his voice close and soft by her ear. Despite her sorrow, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips and she felt her cheeks go a warm, rosy red. _"I have faith; I promise you you're going to be fine."_

This had not been the sort of distraction Phillippe meant when he'd funded all the paints and canvases, but what did it matter? Her heart had slowed to a steady pace and her tears had dried on her cheeks.

By now, her Maestro smiled proudly back at her from the confines of his fabricy realm, contained forever in his little prison, unageing, unchanging, undying, and eternally hers.

It was dawn by the time she finished. Servants had long since begun their daily bustling about outside, but still, she sat before the easel, adding carefully placed, colourful marks to the mask and hair. The sun peered over the horizon and almost through window and slowly lit the canvas from top to bottom with its gentle, golden caress. Christine bit her lip. Moving her hand away, the light fell upon her Maestro's eyes. It was as though, for a split second, it had never gone out in the first place.

Someone passed in the corridor, humming, and she jumped. Another voice that sounded too much like her Maestro's, only noticeable for its untrained melody.

A wash of fatigue reminded her that she hadn't slept one wink. She slouched on her stool, washing the brush yet again and setting it aside to dry, free of its colourful stains.

Her eyes almost flitted back to the canvas as she stood to cover it once more and put it away. But no. However long she spent painting, she could never look at the final product, and she feared she would die of guilt if she did. Any finished piece would be covered and put away in the cupboard, one on top of the other in a neat pile, never to be regarded again.

Perhaps if she looked closely, she would notice that the pile never grew.

A yawn. She made sure to lock the door firmly behind her.

Phillippe had already risen when she returned to bed and flopped into the silky sheets in the most unladylike way she could manage. For that brief, sweet moment, she forgot her husband, forgot her duties and forgot her Maestro. Instead, she gazed through heavy-lidded eyes at a pair of stars that the morning light had not yet faded, for the bedroom faced west and the sun had not yet illuminated the shaded tree just yet, and would not for another few minutes.

Her eyes closed, and, at long last, her breaths shallowed.

But what Christine did not realise, was that the stars that peered through the branches of the old oak outside her window, the ones she always watched rise in the night sky as a means to find sleep, could themselves blink. She fell asleep that morning to the same thing that kept her up throughout the night: the soft, lonely sound of a flute.


	2. 2 The Magic Forest

_I remember this one being a total angst-fest to write; thanks, school? Anyhow, here's Polo!Christine waking up in the enchanted forest and contemplating just how wrong it_ could _have completely gone, before it all_ does _go completely wrong. Heavy angst warning! Also, Cherik is a little crazy, but hello? Christine? Safety-blanket?_

* * *

 **The Magic Forest**

It was, perhaps, only the cracking of twigs that shook her from her cloudy dreams, from vague haunting images of folded, yellow skin and dark holes that were supposed to hold a nose and cheeks. Through the haze, her eyes managed to wedge themselves open.

A bird stared down at her from a high branch, unmoving, unseeing. Her breath hitched. She sat bolt upright, her heart pounding against her ribs.

How had she landed herself here? Her memory had clouded the last few moments before she passed out, and now all that remained through the fog were...

 _Those eyes..._

Eyes so blue and sharp, they could very well cut a piece of her soul out and present it to her on a platter, so intelligent she found herself childishly stupid, but so generously and soothingly polite that such a feeling never lasted very long.

She raked a hand through her hair, pulling an array of grasses and twigs from her curls. The forest was exactly as it had been before — the open picnic basket, its contents only half packed away, the blanket ruffled from their seated positions, the same towering trees and unblinking eyes staring at their master's guest.

And there! She had to stare for a long moment before she realised what it was: his mask. The mask which hid the face of her honest Maestro, now abandoned to the mercy of her consciousness. She reached out a quaking hand.

The material was cold and heavy in her fingers, and a small but surprisingly painful part of her sank at the thought of having to wear it near constantly. The ties fluttered against her bare arm with wispy breaths and only made her heart strain further against its tether. The forest was exactly the same, she thought, but for the disappearance of her shy Maestro.

 _Maestro..._ Ah! Yes, she remembered it _all_ now! A smile graced her lips at the thought of her arm threaded through his. How strange it had been, to see her exquisitely distinguished, elegant Maestro so far below ground, surrounded by old sets, props, trinkets, and now a forest of dreams. And how happy he'd seemed to live such a fairytale, as opposed to his stiff, business-like demeanour he'd presented this past month. It was so... _unlike_ him.

 _Or perhaps it isn't..._

He _had_ been speaking of dreams coming true, after all. Perhaps _this_ was _his_ dream, and he was one of the few fortunate ones to see it come to life.

And she had been the one to shatter it.

A glum guilt settled in her chest, and she cast sorrow-lidded eyes to the mask in her hand. She hadn't seen his reaction to her fainting, but it couldn't have been good; as calm and genteel as her Maestro was with their music lessons, as lovingly as he played the piano in the music hall and, sometimes, his own flute, he was just as easily distressed over matters of the heart.

And so, she decided against the anxiety that had been blooming within her chest for a while now, he must be found and apologised to. She pushed herself from the blanket to quivering legs and took a ginger step, hardly daring to trust her balance. A dark cloud tunnelled her vision, but she pressed on, rather aimlessly, into the forest, ignoring the glassy eyes that followed her.

Somehow, she found her way back to the underground music room and pushed the doors open, biting her lip until she felt sure it would bleed.

Somewhere up ahead, a smash echoed through the house, followed by the violent crashings and bangings of wood on stone. She froze on the threshold.

Her eyes wandered once more to the mask in her hand. Was it worth approaching him right now? Wise, even? Another smash of china, or perhaps mediocre porcelain, made her jump. Her feet rooted to the floor.

But try as she might to imagine it, she simply couldn't picture her kind Maestro causing such a ruckus. Perhaps he had a pet, a dog maybe, that he hadn't mentioned before? One with wild, untrained tendencies to chase its own hysterical tail around his home.

She didn't let herself pause long enough to think through the various reasons why that would _certainly_ not be so, but nodded firmly and crossed the floor to the next door.

She drew it open with a soft creak and peered outside, into what she'd assumed upon arrival was a little porch of some description.

She wished afterwards she hadn't.

He tore around his magical home in a rage, tearing and annihilating the furnishings that once gave it such a wonderful feeling of living a real-life fairy tale, like the ones her Papa had told her as a child. Everything came down: shredded, smashed or knocked over, it seemed nothing could stand in his fiery path.

She retreated from the door, shutting it as softly as she could and gnawing at her lip with newly affrighted vigour. How could she ever look at him again, knowing she had the power to send him into such a fit of rage? She had turned her chivalrous, altruistic teacher into the abhorrent ghoul he believed himself to be; for he was, she forced herself to admit to Gerard's warnings, the Phantom of the Opera.

She placed the mask on a nearby vanity table, where another thousand masks stared at her from their hooks on the walls or meticulous settings on the table, cluttered with powders and puffs; perhaps the horrors of his accursed visage were not simply confined to the areas he covered during their lessons, she wondered. Perhaps his chin and mouth were equally as grotesque. She shuddered. How could she not have guessed? Why had she bought his obvious lie of wishing for anonymity? She knew for a fact _he_ had not believed _her_ little fibs!

Each mask was set an equal distance from each other, lined neatly in order of colour, or perhaps date. It made the gap between a tearful Pierrot mask and a shimmering gold one even more obvious. So entranced was she by the masks that she didn't realise the commotion outside had died.

She studied the display with a frown; it seemed he had a mask for every emotion and season. Transfixed, she reached to touch the teardrops on the Pierrot mask.

The door flew open, slamming against the chest along the wall with an almighty crack. She jumped, retracting her hand, and stared.

There, upon the threshold, stood her Maestro, his temper as enflamed as his burning, copper hair. His breaths were ragged in his throat and his chest rose and fell in quick succession. His sharp eyes cut deep into her skin, filling her with a chilling discomfort.

He took a step forward and, at the same time, she retreated to the other side of the table. It only made him snarl and go after her.

With no thought to it, she fled for the parlour door, for the safety of the wider space. A roar from behind her seemingly rocked the entire opera house on its foundations, and a hand snaked around her wrist, squeezing tight. A sharp yank cut off her stride just before she could reach the door.

A scream ripped its way from her throat. Her eyes were bleary with tears now as she wrestled, kicked, shoved and shouted for all she was worth. Somewhere in the haze of terror, the vague familiarity of his voice rushed through her mind, his words a tangle, intertwined with hers. So different from their harmonious music lessons, so wild, brash, vulgar even.

"You made this happen!" she faintly heard him say as she battled for freedom. She cast her eyes over her shoulders at the door. A sob racked her body and only now did she realise she was crying like a child.

"Please," she managed to rasp, turning back to him as he wrestled her towards a different door, not to the woods, nor to the safety of the parlour and exit, but towards a place she didn't recognise. "Please, I want to go home!"

"No!" His fingers dug into her shoulders through the dress and for a moment she clung to him, her eyes screwed shut, fearing the shaking she might receive. But it never came.

"You've seen my face," he snarled through the darkness. His hands gripped her arms tighter, but they didn't shake or push. She dared to peer at him through one eye. "No one who sees my face is allowed to leave; I thought everybody knew that!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!" she rattled off, trying to dig her heels into the floor.

"Oh, sure!" He feigned amusement, but it faded back into the scowl and he tugged her along with him with a newly found strength. "Do you know what happens to people who see my face, my dear? You don't even realise how great a favour I'm doing you!"

"Maestro—!"

But he scowled and shook her words from his ears. "People return without their lives, you know, when they see! Count yourself lucky that I shall spare yours! You can never return, woman, do you hear me? Never! Ahh! Not so curious now, are you? No, no, put those tears away, for pity's sakes! Yes, yes indeed; your freedom in exchange for your life!"

Somewhere in her nonsensical pleas, Philippe's name tumbled from her lips. Her Maestro said nothing but scowled harder and clutched her closer, tighter, as he tried to open the third door.

"Erik, I—" She forced her eyes up as he tried to kick the door open. He paused to glare at her as she grasped his dress-shirt sleeves into thick balls. "Please..."

"Please _what_?" he snapped. She felt his breath rush over her face, hot and close, too close. Only now did she realise their impolite proximity to each other. His fingers still dug into her arms, tense and quivering with rage. She swallowed.

"Don't shake me."

Silence. For a long moment, neither person moved. She hardly dared to breathe as his eyes raked over her face, but then she lifted her gaze to meet his, praying her quiet plea would speak just as loudly as her screams, and his widened ever so slightly.

One by one, his fingers uncurled themselves from her dress sleeves and he removed his hands tentatively.

"Shake you, Christine?" he muttered, only the tips of his fingers lingering on the fabric now. He stared at them, as if he couldn't understand what he'd just done. She prayed he couldn't hear her thundering heartbeats. A rickety gasp escaped her before she could stop it. He retreated by a step. "Keep you here, I will; shake you, I will not."

She tried to swallow again, her only comfort against the hoarseness building in her throat. Her arms wrapped around herself in an attempt to control an onset of little quakes.

Her Maestro had turned away, his head bowed. She watched as he glanced up, wondering if he felt the same discomfort she did. But to her surprise, he chuckled. It was a terrible sound, that little laugh, full of disdain and self-hatred; he'd spotted himself in the vanity table mirror.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, looking back at her from his slouched stance. She tried not to notice how old he suddenly looked, his eyes tired and broken.

"I..." Her words died in her throat. Why _had_ she done it? It all seemed so silly now; perhaps it had been the thrill of the fairytale, or the magic of it all. She must have forgotten that he was still only a man.

How disappointing that realisation was. It stole her words from her. She could only look at him, hoping he'd somehow read her thoughts, for she'd die of embarrassment if she confessed to them.

Ah, but she forgot: he was only a man.

"For God's sakes, Christine, _why_?" he roared, his voice cracking. His fingers found her dress sleeves again, catching her off guard. Her mouth hung open at that. He hissed at himself and drew back, as if stung, tucking his hands firmly beneath his arms. "Christine, _why_?"

His shouts died on the air, leaving only the sound of ringing tuning forks and a pair of racing hearts. Unable to help herself, she found her eyes roaming his face, where there sat a menacing black façade. So unused to it, she oggled it a moment too long.

He sprung away, pressing his face into his hands as if it would ward off her searing gaze. A whimper. A sniff. And then—

"Christine..." he whined, like a lost, wounded dog whines for his master in the hopes he might be rescued. Her heart clenched. "Oh Christine, why were you so curious? It wasn't enough just to hear me, no, no, you _had_ to see too."

A scornful chuckle, not directed at her. He sank to his knees and let his hands fall uselessly into his lap.

"But it was not your fault, my dear. No, how could it ever be your fault? You are simply... curious."

From somewhere deep within her throat, pulled from the murky, silent ponds of horror, a sound left her lips.

" _Maestro..._ "

His shoulders went rigid. She waited for his reply. None came.

Instead, he began to shake, as if he was freezing to death. In a moment of fright, she stepped towards him and reached for him. But then he caught her hand before it could land upon his person, and turned on his knees with slow, painful movements, to face her.

His eyes did not meet hers as he clutched the fabric of her dress and sobbed into it.

Overwhelmed by it all, she found herself stroking his hair and offering little comforts, but soon her own tears were dribbling down her cheeks and she ached for her lost father's strong, weathered arms around her and his song in her ears. It only made her sob anew.

Her Maestro had rested his cheek against her stomach, but now he looked up.

 _Oh no,_ she scolded herself, looking away from his concerned eyes. Now he'd _never_ look at her as anything but a child missing her deceased father. But of course, he'd already noticed and had sprung to his feet before her.

"Christine—"

She shook her head and offered a teary smile, sniffing it all away. "It's alright."

She went to dry her eyes, but he was already unfurling his handkerchief and nudging her hand away to dab at her eyes himself. She didn't fail to notice the redness of his own behind the mask.

"Here, let me," she said, finding his hand as he wiped the last of her tears. She reached her other hand for his mask and—

"No!" He caught her before she could go near his face again and backed off, pocketing his handkerchief. "No."

"Maestro, you've been crying! Don't ask me to believe it isn't uncomfortable!"

"Of _course_ it's uncomfortable, you— you...!"

She held her ground as his eyes met hers and kept them captive with his own.

A sigh. "I... I shall take you home." He must have spotted her minuscule expression of surprise, because he quickly added, "To your room. No further."

And so it was that, no more than fifteen minutes later, he was guiding her back through the tunnels. A heavy silence hung over them as they went, neither person daring to lift it.

As she reached what seemed to be the hundredth flight of stairs, she noticed that he'd begun to hang back. A frown crossed her brow of its own accord.

"Maestro?"

"You go ahead," he assured quietly, fidgeting with his sleeve and faking nonchalance. "The exit is just up these stairs and to the left. You'll find yourself in the Rotunda."

Another silence. She watched him sadly as he drew a breath, caught her eye and tried a smile.

"Go, Christine." It was one of the quietest voices she'd ever heard, so beautiful and melodic, she found herself moving up the stairs as if he'd put her under a trance. She walked for a century, up and up and up—

And suddenly, there were no more steps to take. She turned at the top of the flight, ripped from the spell with a bolt of shock.

"Erik—!"

She should have known better than to expect to see him watching after her, for he was a Phantom, a spectre, a shadow. And shadows never step into the light.


	3. 3 The Magic Dinner

_FLUFF! ! ! !_

 _We join Cherik here as he frets over making his house and dining room as perfect in possible in the vague hope of having Christine around for dinner... even after he watched her leave the Bistro with a different man. But hope on!_

* * *

It just wasn't _right._

No matter how much he fiddled with the forks, corrected the crockery or cleaned the candelabras, the table just looked... _off._

He'd changed twice since returning from the Bistro, and the soup bubbled away on the stove, his third batch since six o'clock — the other two had been so kind as to be too watery or spill right down his front.

And now, as soon as he'd fixed those problems, the table was all wrong.

Erik found himself tapping his foot against the floor, the little clacks of makeshift tap-shoes dancing around the dining room. He could almost _hear_ her sigh, as though she were right behind him in the doorway, watching him pace endlessly around the table, setting it this way and that.

 _A perfectionist_ , she'd call him, a fond remark she'd begun to make during their lessons in the past few weeks, usually at any sort of correction he made to his piano style or muttered comment about the original artist's score. If he stopped for just a moment and closed his eyes, the fairytale was real.

But no. Now was not the time for make-believe; now was the time to make his palace fit for a queen. And if that was to happen, the table needed to be ready.

 _It's just dinner,_ she'd add quietly, her smile audible even though he wouldn't look up at her. Ah, but he'd read the books. It was not _just dinner,_ was it? It was a gentleman keeping the company of a woman for an hour or so to celebrate a wonderful victory, followed by a relaxing half hour of music or reading or chess, a perfectly harmless time. It was not as though they would be unchaperoned in a... in a _cart_ for the night!

Yes, he'd seen her leave the Bistro earlier.

Looking back on it all, his invitation had been a rather awkward conversation in the hansom cab. How had he phrased it?

 _'Do you like chicken?'_ How he'd wanted to kick himself afterwards. She'd frowned back at him.

 _'Chicken?'_

 _'Yes...'_ he'd mumbled, fidgeting with his cane. _'Chicken soup, perhaps?'_

 _'Well, yes,'_ she'd chuckled. He'd nodded. The cab had gone silent.

Looking back on it, he hadn't actually _asked_ her to dine with him, and how he'd scolded himself for it afterwards! Maybe he'd held her hand just a second too long to be proper as she exited the cab, or perhaps she didn't catch his meaning at all. But then—

 _'With soda bread!'_ she'd added as he saw her to the steps that would bring her to the bustling room, to her future. He'd smiled and tipped his hat, his heart too aflutter at the nervous grin she'd sent him from the top step to do much else.

And then she was gone. But he was not.

Soda bread. The girl had him wound around her little finger. He'd sworn never to wear the custom-made Chopin apron Gerard had gifted him, complete with a medley of his scores, but now it was tossed upon a growing pile of laundry in the conservatory — behind a locked door, no less — and utterly covered in flour and little, dried crumbs of dough.

So she _must_ have understood him! She was not a silly girl — impressionable and trusting, yes, but not silly — and she'd more than likely picked up on any quirks he might have displayed during the months they'd worked together.

He stood back from the table, looking over it one last time. A pair of plates sat opposite each other, their cutlery washed and polished until they gleamed in the light of the candles that decorated the rest of the table, which he'd draped in his finest, silk white cloth. The floor had been swept of its dust, a rug had been laid beneath the table for her after a long evening and the candles in the chandelier above replenished and fueled. The wooden panels that would make this room perhaps the most familiar to her out of all the others had been dusted too, and the picture frames upon the crockery cabinet cleaned until they sparkled.

It looked alright, didn't it? Vaguely decent? It would at very least serve its purpose?

Oh, good grief, that fork, no, it simply _wouldn't_ do—

He stopped himself. No. The fork was fine. Was he looking at it from the wrong angle? Thrice now he'd set himself at Christine's chair and dipped to her height to make sure she would see and reach everything with ease.

He forced himself to step away and distracted himself with his pocket watch. She'd be back in half an hour, tops, and he _must_ he there to greet her. How could he expect her to find her way down here? How, indeed, did he expect her to know he lived down here in the first place?

He pocketed the watch again and fiddled with his cufflinks. Should he have polished them a fourth time? No, no surely thrice was enough. He wasn't sure if the polish might start affecting the plating or not. Better safe than sorry. But was that a scratch on the metal?

He fiddled more vigorously with it, trying to hide the imperfection, and only now did he realise his heart was racing, in his chest, his throat, his ears, it was all he could hear!

A deep breath, just like Gerard had taught him, and a shaky exhale. It would be alright. It had to be.

He hadn't planned what to do it it wasn't.

Ten minutes of ticking hands later saw him blowing out a taper and closing the lantern case gently. He set it aside and pulled his cloak over his shoulders, fumbling with the clasp; it was the gloves, he told himself, the _gloves_ were making it harder than necessary.

Eventually, it clicked into place and he started with a huffed _'right, then!'_ He picked up the lantern, and was halfway to the door when he stopped himself.

His home was presentable, his clothes were clean and pressed, but...

He closed his eyes against the voice that told him not to bother and paced backwards to the mirror on the wall over the cabinet.

He had to check the mask.

How pitiful. He'd spent hours tidying, baking, cooking, slaving over his home to make it as comfortable as possible, and yet he had to make sure his face was completely hidden by porcelain and powder.

He stared for a moment too long at his reflection, or rather, his mask's reflection, recalling her smiles as she followed her boy to his little cart and pony. He would never be able to offer her that, he knew that much.

And yet...

 _'With soda bread!'_ Her voice still rang clear and pure in his mind.

He pushed a comb through his hair quickly, picked up the lantern and made for the door, confidence renewed, for he possessed what no other man could ever: the magic of the opera house, of music.

And if he knew one thing about Christine Daae, it was that she was fascinated by such magic.

* * *

She was late.

Erik had already spent an hour and a half in the music room, going over and over various compositions to pass the time, and had been Down Below more than once to make sure the soup was alright. It had finished cooking twenty minutes ago and now sat on the stove at a gentle simmer.

And still no sign.

He checked his watch again, beginning to make believe he hadn't set it properly. It couldn't _possibly_ already be half past one in the morning! He slouched at the piano, running his fingers across the keys.

 _Ten more minutes,_ he told himself, although ten turned to twenty, and twenty to half an hour. By now, a glum weight had settled in his chest.

She wasn't coming.

He picked himself up from the bench and straightened his waistcoat.

 _Never mind_ , he thought, fixing his cuffs again, although his hands were tight and his jaw gritted. _She's gone home, that's all. Never mind._

He tried not to think of the chicken soup and soda bread as he walked back to the door. The darkness ahead crept up to meet—

"Maestro?"

He turned.

She stood on the other side of the room, dragging breaths. Her headpiece hung lopsided in her hair, tangled and undone. Her cloak had stained with muddy water at the bottom; he didn't dare think about the dress.

"Oh, forgive me!" she scurried towards him, touching the piano as she passed it. "Forgive me, please!"

But he couldn't find his voice. His mouth opened and closed in a desperate attempt to form words, until he was sure he resembled the little goldfish Gerard had brought him so many years ago.

And then, from nowhere: "Forgive? There is nothing to forgive, Christine."

He shut his mouth in shock. Had those words been his? He looked about for the Count for just a moment, but it was a moment she used to complete her journey and catch his arm.

"No, no, you don't understand, I was—" Her words trailed off and she bit her lip. He looked from her hand, wrapped around his sleeve, to his freshly polished, clicky-clacky shoes.

They both knew.

"I baked soda bread," he mumbled.

A frown. "Soda bread?"

"And cooked chicken soup."

A silence.

"For me?"

"No," he said, clearing his throat. "I had thought about inviting La Carlotta for a pleasant evening meal. We are ardent lovers, you know, but her husband must never find out, so you cannot tell a soul."

She let go of his arm. He looked up at her sweetly. She didn't catch on, searching his eyes for a moment. He smiled — he couldn't help it; she was so amusing to watch as she guessed whether he was lying or not.

Her eyes lit up and she slapped his upper arm lightly.

"You're too convincing to play jokes!" she protested. "That wasn't fair!"

For the first time that evening, he laughed, and the weight that had settled in his chest earlier lifted entirely.

"Mademoiselle Daae," he chuckled, easing the old headpiece from her golden hair as she tried to glare at him. He pocketed it and offered her his arm instead. "Would you care to join me for dinner to celebrate your success tonight?"

She cast him a sideways look, and if she had any experience with masking her emotions, she could have been rather convincing. "You must swear not to play tricks on me!"

"You have my word, Mademoiselle!" He bowed for good measure, and, finally, she slipped her arm through his.

The small pressure of her hand resting upon his wrist stole his breath away. With one touch, his confidence seeped away and a fiery heat swept up through his face. He blamed it on the clammy mask.

"Maestro?"

He cleared his throat. "Indeed; shall we go?"

* * *

If Christine was surprised at being led below street level at two o'clock in the morning, she wasn't making it known. Down and down Erik brought her, further than she'd ever gone before — he'd discovered her following him from a lesson one day and sent her back with scolding before she'd gone very far past the third cellar, but he was fairly sure she hadn't tried it more than once.

"Watch your step," he said, helping her down a slippery set of stairs; they were nearing the lake and now the stone was becoming too wet for him to feel safe with her walking unaided, not in the shoes he'd given her earlier.

"You're not _really_ seeing Carlotta, are you?" Christine said, stepping down to his side and looking up at him, her eyes slightly narrow in question.

A laugh ripped its way from his throat without his realising. "Good heavens, no! I'd rather go deaf!"

"You'd go deaf anyhow," she giggled, as though she was worried someone else might hear her all the way down here. "I think I should rather throw myself into the dirty old lake they say is down here than listen to her all my life!"

"Christine Daae!" he exclaimed, nudging her with his side so she giggled. "You must never threaten such a thing!"

She, like a child, stuck her tongue out at him, but retracted it with a blush. He tried to remain unfazed, despite the mask hiding his burning cheeks, and sniffed, feigning indignance. "Besides, my lake is perfectly clean and drainable."

She pushed him back. A mouse had better luck moving a table. A huff, masking another laugh. " _Your_ lake?"

He stopped. She stumbled back to him, feet slipping but never falling. He regarded her look of shock and held her up.

"You don't believe me?"

Her mouth pressed into a line. Again, she searched his eyes. "You cannot own an entire lake."

"Whyever not?"

"Because you cannot own a part of this opera house!" She gestured to their dark, stoney surroundings and frowned at him. "Do you?"

"My dear," he chuckled, guiding her along to the door ahead. He lay his hand upon the handle and pushed it open. "Everything in this opera house belongs to me."

Her jaw hung. There, where she must have expected a wilderness of stone, sat his little dining room, decorated in wood and candlelight. He saw her to the table, doing his best to ignore that accursed fork at his place.

"Please..." His voice was a bit smaller than he'd have liked as he drew her chair out. He waited until she'd tentatively seated herself before pushing it back to the table, and flexed his hands in a bid to stop their quaking. He stepped back, raising himself up and down on the balls of his feet.

 _Good_ _God,_ _the_ soup _!_

He gave a gasp and hurried for the broth pot, fetching their bowls on the way.

But was that a chip in—

He ignored it and set about pouring ladles of soup. Did she have too little? Too much? She would hate to leave it if she had too much, and he didn't want her to overfill herself and make herself ill, although he didn't want her to go hungry either, and what about—

He hadn't realised she was laughing until he forgot about the soup and picked up the warming bowls, but, in that moment, he didn't know whether to smile along or check his clothes for stains again. His face fell instead.

"What's wrong?"

She only giggled further, louder, and covered her mouth with her shawl. He stared at her for a long moment — had the poor girl gone quite mad? — and dared to check his reflection. No, his mask was perfectly in place and clean. So what could possibly—

"Christine Daae, what on God's green earth has come over you?"

Her giggles erupted into laughter and she gave a clap. "You're wearing tap-shoes!"

His cheeks flamed as bright as his copper hair, and the mask grew hot against his skin all of a sudden.

"It was a passing fad!" he blurted out, setting the bowls down and taking his own seat. But she was too far into her hysterics by now and clung to her chair. She'd gone a terrifying shade of red and it wasn't getting any better. "Christine!"

"I'm sorry," she spluttered, dabbing at her eyes with the napkin he'd spent the better half of twenty minutes trying to fold with the aid of an origami book, which he'd borrowed — yes, _borrowed_ — from Choletti's desk drawer.

 _Oh, come now,_ he'd told himself as he'd snuck it into his cloak and headed for the passage behind a bookshelf, decorated with more pictures of La Carlotta than actual books. Choletti had spent three weeks trying to fold a piece of paper into a swan. Erik had managed it in less than half an hour. He wouldn't miss it.

"Tap-shoes were the last thing I'd have expected to see you wearing, I'm afraid!" she added, still fighting the odd coughed giggle. "Do you dance?"

He wasn't sure whether she was mocking or not as she blew gently on her soup and sipped it from her spoon. But something about the glimmer in her eyes told him she couldn't possibly be.

"I used to," he mumbled. "I gave it up a while ago, but I think I just kept the shoes because the sounds are comforting."

"You shall have to teach me that one day too, now you've told me!"

He was sure he would. There was, after all, only so far he could bring her voice, and that tether was straining by now. Teach her to dance? Why, he still stumbled over his own feet!

But his mind wandered to her foppish boy and, despite his growing hatred, he smiled back. "I will, Christine. But first, your dinner is going cold."


	4. 4 The Magical Christmas

He'd overdone it with the tinsel, he just knew it.

Erik stood back to study his normally tidy, organised living room. How he'd managed to convince Gerard to help lug that miniature fir tree in that corner over there all the way from the market to the fifth cellar, and then across the lake no less, he had no idea. But there it was, standing in a puddle of its own needles, barely visible with the amount of tinsel he'd wrapped around its branches.

Underneath it, the little boxes, which he'd spent that long, terrifying evening wrapping, sat precariously arranged as in the little display he'd oggled in the shop window this very morning.

He checked his pocket watch for the hundredth time that afternoon and tapped his foot - he'd need to change out of his tap shoes, wouldn't he? Put these ones in the conservatory before Christine realised he was still very much attached to the clickety-clacks they made against the stone. He had a proper pair somewhere, didn't he?

"It looks fairly good," Gerard commented from the armchair. Erik glowered at the tree as it began to bend from the weight of his decorations, and dared it to topple at its peril. "If the trunk holds up."

"Do you think it's strong enough?" The baubles alone were quite heavy, and glass at that.

"It certainly felt strong enough when you made me haul it down here at four in the morning, Erik," Gerard said, his voice low in his throat. Erik shot him a look from the corner of his eye. Gerard cleared his throat. "It will hold."

The tree groaned and leaned further to the side. Erik bounded over before it could take him up on his bet and hauled it upright.

"On second thoughts, I hope you didn't put absolutely _everything_ on it, did you?"

"The silver was rather becoming with the gold!" Erik protested, his masked face pressed into the needles and pile of tinsel. He wrapped his arms around the tree further and cradled the top with one hand.

"Take some off."

"Never!"

"Erik, it's going to fall when you let go, and you _know_ that."

A silence.

Erik blinked.

"You must let go at _some_ point. Won't you?"

Erik said nothing. The tree groaned and sagged against him. He nudged a box away and stood upright, bringing the tree with him.

"What will Christine think when she sees you?" Gerard ambled over and lay a hand on Erik's shoulder, as if that could tempt him away from saving his handiwork from a loud and messy demise. "Her respectable, kindly Maestro, in some sort of amorous embrace with a little fir tree!"

"I'll tell her I simply like trees."

"Enough not to let go of one for an entire holiday?"

Erik rolled his eyes. "Of course not!"

It was a silly tradition anyhow. German, he believed, although it seemed to be the British to show him the extravagant ways of dressing a tree. A tree, he'd spluttered last year! How would one go about dressing a tree, hmm? Give it a tailored waistcoat and hat? Perhaps a cane to wave in greeting when it saw other trees? Dressing a tree, indeed!

Yet here he was, with more tinsel and baubles, fitted snugly on the sharp branches, than actual tree, in the corner of his little living room. And for what? His own embarrassment before the lady he'd insisted he didn't _need_ to impress?

Denying he loved her, however he looked at it, was futile by now.

"Erik." Gerard tugged lightly at his shoulder. "I have the tree. Come away and we'll simply take a few things off."

He stayed a few seconds more, debating that point. The tree leaned away from him slightly. Begrudgingly, he unravelled his arms from the branches and stepped gingerly aside.

"Take this off for starters," Gerard said, pulling a length of tinsel-free. Erik grumbled about his wasted afternoon of colour coordination and endless designs but complied and removed a few more, along with some baubles and several tiny nativity scenes, carefully laying them back in their boxes.

He hadn't realised just how much he'd piled onto the tree until it came off. By the time they had a boxful of decorations again, it was starting to resemble something more tree-like.

"Stop!" he ordered, stepping back with hands spread to examine their work. Gerard paced back alongside him. "That's it. I do believe we've made it significantly better!"

The tree groaned and sighed into its pot.

Gerard inhaled sharply.

Erik folded his arms and nodded, once and curt. "It's perfect."

Gerard shuffled back to his armchair and sank into the creaky cushions, rubbing the bridge of his nose - the sort of nose Erik might have inherited, he'd often thought begrudgingly - and pinching the skin there.

"Erik," he said with a sigh, "you're mad."

Erik rolled his eyes. "And a Happy New Year."

* * *

"Right this way, my dear," he said, smiling his best as he appeared at her side and took up her hand gently.

To say he felt rude for sweeping her away from the Christmas Eve masked ball upstairs would be a complete inaccuracy. She carried a beautiful mask in her hand, shimmering silver in his dark tunnels, and, if he had been young and naive still, he would have imagined her his mother's ghost, draped in all of heaven's finery. Besides, all there was up there was drunken drivel and that cacophony they called music. He was really doing her a favour.

Christine Daae, radiant in her new gown and recently curled hair, seemed to have grown used to trekking five stories below her usual, Parisian ground.

"I'm only here on the promise of that Christmas turkey," she teased, following him through the tunnels - at least, he _hoped_ she was teasing. Even now, even after forty years of needing to be able to tell exactly what people were thinking and when, he still found himself unsure of Miss Daae's feelings; did she like his little jokes? Did she find him courteous or just downright strange? Was she be disgusted with his reasons for hiding away - he would be, if he were in her shoes.

And yet she took his arm every time and let him wander through the Jardin de Luxembourg with her or take her out in a borrowed carriage through the Bois de Boulogne, each time under the cover of inky darkness, which she'd been wary of at first but soon come to associate with her Maestro's bashful and introverted nature.

He'd learned rather quickly that she was never convinced of his _borrowing_ that carriage, but he couldn't very well tell her that the former manager of the opera house she worked in, his father no less - come now, he wasn't blind. Hideous, maybe, but blind? - wouldn't _really_ mind if they returned the horses and carriage in tiptop condition.

"And a turkey you will have," he promised, unlocking the dining room door, the same door he'd led her through a month ago - only a month? It felt like a lifetime. She grinned, sweet and girlish and like _Christine_ , and he let her in first. "Cloak?"

She undid it and handed it back to him.

For a moment, a moment he barely thought he'd survive, his fingers brushed over hers. Even through his gloves, which he'd spent twenty minutes - each - fiddling with and perfecting over and over again, he felt the warmth of her hand.

It sent a shock through him, enough to snatch the cloak and murmur a shaky 'thank you' as he hung it on a cloak rack. She didn't seem to notice; was she _used_ to this sort of behaviour? He bit his lip. Even after six months, even the slightest contact made him freeze or jolt or turn into jelly. That would need some work, he knew.

He swallowed and adjusted his cravat.

 _How to be a Man Infront of a Lady: Lesson One_ began this evening.

He seated her at the table and filled her glass to a polite amount, training his stare on it and not on the honey-sweet smile she'd taken to giving him this month, the one that usually sent him to his bed clutching a pillow and lying there in a fuzzy, dazed panic for an hour after she left. The towel came away from the turkey, leaving it shimmering in the gold aura of the candelabra beside it.

"Miss Daae," he said, seating himself across from her at the little table, smaller now with two people sitting at it; it had only been designed for one diner, but he _preferred_ the cosy setting.

"You cooked all of this?" she asked, marvelling at the dinner he'd convinced Gerard to spend his afternoon cooking.

"Give or take," he chuckled, carving into the turkey. "And for afterwards, I've prepared a pleasant evening and an even nicer collection of Verdi and Mozart."

"And Gounod?" she pressed, forcing a whole potato into her mouth to silence her rumbling stomach.

He smiled. "And Gounod."

He stayed true to his promise and, when they had finished eating and taking turns to sing - and indeed learn, in Erik's case, when Christine sang in Swedish - some carols as they washed the crockery and cutlery, he escorted her to the music room.

She sat like a picture on the love seat, grinning across at him while he played through _Silent Night, O Little Town of Bethlehem_ and _Away in a Manger_ , the simplest little tunes made an angel's hymn when Christine lifted her voice and accompanied his flute.

He could have played for years if only to hear her sing those carols. But, alas, her voice soon displayed its tire after her practise and performance earlier, and Erik was no stranger to the little dips and cracks that signalled the need for rest.

He, however, after asking her to stop, played on.

That must have been how he came to realise half an hour later that Christine Daae had fallen asleep on the love seat plonked herself in.

He put the flute down, hesitating. He should put her in a suitable sleeping place, surely. But to touch her, especially while she was asleep? To lift and carry her to his spare room? Promiscuous! Obscene! Ungentlemanly!

He stared at her for a moment longer, the various combinations to the puzzle ticking through his mind. Each and every one required moving her somehow; she'd form such a crick in her neck, and that wasn't fair of him.

He weighed the cost of being a good friend against the unspoken laws of society, of courtship - but wait, was he even courting her? Didn't that make this evening all the more indecent? Each and every time, he came to the same conclusion.

Surely she wouldn't mind?

In the end, he arose from his seat and pulled off his tailcoat. She was easy to move so she lay across the seat; he folded her hands to make her comfortable, but that looked rather macabre and he didn't wish to alarm her upon waking to find herself stationed like a corpse. But what else could he do without awakening her?

Gently, he set his coat over her, taking care to remove the little dagger he kept in an inner pocket. His fingers twitched to push the few strands of hair away from her nose, but he didn't allow it. He wouldn't touch her any more than he had to to make her comfortable. Then he wouldn't have to overstep any very serious boundaries and also be a good person.

He was a genius.

Christmas, he thought, shutting the door behind him quietly and tiptoeing away to find a proper blanket, had never really been celebrated in his world, especially not down here, not after his poor, beloved mother passed on. Of course, Erik had seen, and indeed, in his younger, more rebellious years, _joined_ \- although he was always scolded for it afterwards - the Christmas _Bal Masques_ Gerard had organised, but as far as Christmas went, that was about it.

Even then, it had always been _Up There,_ out of his reach and dangled like a carrot in front of a beach donkey. Over the years, he must have seen the holiday as more of an annoying séance of poorly sung carols and drunkenness, opportunity enough to play silly little tricks - usually with mirrors and lights or whatever his fancy was at the time - and get away with them for the most part.

But this year, he decided as he found his best blanket and hurried back to the music room, was different. _Decidedly_ different.

That was because, when he looked inside, Christine Daae was awake and smiling at him.

Suddenly, those simple Christmas carols, even the beautiful Sweedish ones he often times couldn't wrap his soft-speaking, French tongue around, became the heights of musical perfection, and their writers masters of their craft.


End file.
